Kaleidoscope
by TrustFalls
Summary: Collection of loosely connected One Shots through the seasons, all of them Jisbon. Latest: Just an ordinary day in crime solving business and an easy case.
1. Graze

_**A/N**:_ Welcome to my little time travel project! It's a collection of One Shots through all seven seasons—yes, seven. Because seven is my lucky number and because we have to think positive, right? Ehm. I'll try to keep the different parts as true to the original as possible, which means that the Jisbon degree will vary, but they'll surely all be Jisbon.

And I have to thank my beta reader wimmer511 for doing so much more than just pointing out mistakes!

Ps: Original, Kaleidoscope was supposed to be Lisbons perspective only, but then Jane showed up and simply refused to go away (I bet Lisbon knows how I felt) so..I blame him, for everything.

**Set**: Somewhere in season 1, after 1/17 ("Let's do a trust fall.")

"_Change came in disguise of revelation, set his soul on fire._

_She says she always knew he'd come around._

_And the decades disappear like sinking ships"_

_(The Killers/A dustland fairytale)_

"You can go in now."

The Doctor whose name tag identified him as "Dr Cains", was ill shaven and slightly overweight. Just as obvious he was tired and frustrated and Jane couldn't help but ask himself whether the fact that the man had been ignored during the recent promotion or an encounter with his latest patient were to blame. Given the circumstances the latter seemed to be likely. But if he ever felt anything remotely like pity, that feeling withered the moment his wedding band was briefly glanced at and all the wrong assumptions were made.

"Maybe she'll listen to you."

The fool hadn't even read Lisbon's intake form properly nor had he ever looked at her right hand.

But Jane wasn't in the mood for explanation's of any kind, he had already smelled to much disinfectant and lost enough time.

"Oh, I doubt that."

Instead he smiled and shrugged, like they were having that kind of a relationship, where he was used to waiting for her on hospital corridors, because he told her to be careful all the time and she just never listened. It was a bad joke but the irony wasn't wasted on him and the moment his fingers touched the doorknob the grimace vanished.

Jane sneaked a quick peek before he entered the small room, took a moment to observe and to detect Lisbon's mood. They hadn't talked since the incident; there had been too many others around, too much fuss. Which is why he had no idea if they'd just talk or if he was about to enter a grumpy lion's den.

Not that it would have mattered much anyway.

What he saw was no unusual sight and therefore held no evidence: Lisbon sat on a small desk and fought her way through a bunch of paper and she seemed completely absorbed by her dull task. The slightly stiff, banged left arm was the only detail to differ from the familiar picture—that and the fact that she wasn't sitting in her office but in a hospital room.

The coffee from the machine that accompanied Jane was probably a thin swill and lukewarm at most, but he carefully placed the cup on the table corner nevertheless.

It was the best peace proposal he had to offer and apparently it was an unwanted one.

Lisbon didn't say anything like that—in fact she didn't say anything at all—and she didn't have to. The way she tensed a little when she heard him approach, the way she didn't look at him practically sang about her suppressed anger and her wish to be somewhere else. He took a few steps back and leaned his back against a wall.

This would take a while.

The first thing he said was: "Listen, I am sorry," because he really was and for once she didn't have to make him say these words.

"Don't beat yourself up. I'm okay, it's only a graze."

She answered absent mindedly, didn't even bother looking at him. Instead, she scribbled at the dismissal form like her life depended on it. Two hours ago her life had depended on something else, but he was not going to point out the obvious for her.

"Once I've filled these out, I'm outta here. Jones has probably already lawyered up and I don't want to waste any more time in here."

Cains had probably tried to persuade her to stay the night "for safety reasons, in case she was in a shock" something like that, and fled because he found that particular nut too hard to crack, but Jane wasn't going to give up that easily. Honesty had failed him so far, which is why he continued with half-jokes.

"I guess I owe you a free punch."

He smiled miserably, not only because he had seen her punch suspects before and was pretty sure that she had a terrible right hook, despite being so tiny.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Still nothing but the scratching of her pen to fill the small room.

"You should, it's probably your once in a lifetime chance to do what you've been thinking about for some time now. And don't say you didn't, because I know you did." He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and became serious again. "The situation was under control until I crashed the party. I deserve it." Another variation of the truth—and an ugly little understatement as well.

"I know you didn't mean any of this to happen." Polite emptiness seemed to be all Lisbon was willing to offer him but he could not content himself with that "little" here. This was something they had to clarify.

This had happened: Last night the owner of a medium sized business was found in a puddle of his own blood. The first thing Lisbon wanted to do, in the morning, was to have a talk with his partner in business, Robert Jones. And she had brought him, her consultant, along for all the insight he could give. When they arrived at the house there had been a lot of screaming and waving of a gun, on Jones' side—a clear case of a man being unable to cope with what he had done. And a tale of too much alcohol, judging by the smell on his breath.

According to his own, slightly confusing statements Jones had been torn between shooting himself and shooting them. Lisbon had told him to stay behind and keep quiet, but like always, he had known so much better. Instead, he had been his usual self, playing his games asking all the wrong questions and drawing all the right conclusions, being about ninety percent sure that the man wouldn't fire.

But this time ninety percent hadn't been enough.

The catching remark that pushed Jones over the edge had been: "Go ahead, shoot yourself if you feel you have to. You'll ruin that nice, expensive looking suit with your brain muck, but at this rate you'll be very, very dead and won't care anymore. That's your choice."

In this very moment Jones had decided to shoot at them. Lisbon had been his first choice, because she was the armed one. She had thrown herself to the ground, but she had been a second too late, the second the bullet had needed to graze her shoulder. Seconds after that Sac PD had finally arrived and tackled down Jones.

Jane hadn't been of much benefit to anyone.

"You leave me hanging here, but I guess it's only fair." He tried to make it sound like an objective estimation, something to notice and cope with, but failed miserably. Because having earned such a treatment was dead certain nothing to pass over with levity—not even for him.

And he was used to passing over a lot of things.

"I'm not leaving you anywhere, Jane." Lisbon sounded a little tired, strained like she had been explaining the same matter to a stubborn child the whole day—a stubborn child named Patrick Jane to be precise. "You simply did what you always do and this time I wasn't fast enough to balance it. Now, can we please drop the matter?"

She meant what she had said, that much was obvious to him.

Justice was the romantic ideal she clung onto, he had know that much already. What he had only guessed til today was where she saw herself in the big picture. Now he knew for sure—and he wished he didn't.

And suddenly, he was _so_ mad at her.

For meaning what she said, for not thinking about leaving him despite the fact that he nearly had gotten her killed today**. **For being who she was. For blaming herself instead of him, for acting like dying in the name of "justice" would be no big deal. For a whirlwind of reasons that surprised and alarmed him at the same time, but at the very moment they were just another thing to pass over.

Right now, he was just going to be angry, because that feeling demanded neither excuses nor explanation's of any kind.

"Oh, please, Lisbon! Stop being a saint, just once!" he growled, seemingly absorbed with brushing away an imaginary lint from his shoulder with a tense hand.

Lisbon stiffened before she put the pen aside and finally, for the first time during this whole mess, looked him in the eye. It was a cold and stern look and she was trying to hide something behind it. His always observing eyes noted this and a few other things, like how pale her face was and he was fairly certain that it was not only the effect of the neon light. The same applied for the dark circles around her eyes and the larger amount of make-up she had used today to hide those.

This was not about Jones, this was about something that she had been lugging around for longer.

"I never pretended to be a saint, I'm just being reasonable. Somebody has to." She clenched her right hand into a first. "And besides you wouldn't know anyway, since you don't even believe in the existence of saints." She pointed out triumphant, her voice laboriously controlled.

No, of course he didn't—how could he? He wasn't even she sure Lisbon did, catholic school or not, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

Seemingly, he had finally managed to get through to her, but he suddenly doubted if it was a desirable place to go in her current state of mind; or in his for that matter.

But he should have thought about that earlier. Much earlier, because now it was now impossible to retreat to his fortress of fake smiles and smug remarks.

"I don't need to, and for what it's worth, I never accused you of pretending. I know you don't do that…at least not when it comes to important things."

He shook his head in awe, because she really was a puzzle. One he hadn't solved yet and maybe never would. It was not the first time that the thought of their limited time together grazed him, but it was the first time that the weight almost buried him. He'd find and kill Red John and then… _Yeah, what then?_ He had never really thought about that time. It was an elusive thing, too far away and much too close at the same time. Maybe he'd die doing it, maybe there'd be the death penalty waiting for him or he'd have to live out the rest of his days in a federal prison, he didn't really care—at least that's what he preferred to tell himself. Something else he insisted on fooling himself with was that he had become incapable of caring about any living human being; that Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt were just background actors, the supporting group preparing the stage for his grand, final entrance. (Someday and somehow, he would have to stop lying to himself.)

And Lisbon had known enough about his private madness and agreed to working with him nevertheless, despite her own doubts.

"You really are a saint." The words came out much more gentle then originally intended, affectionate and a little surprised.

He had always enjoyed solving puzzles and if things were different… But that was a dangerous game to play, because things _weren't _different. They couldn't be.

With his outlooks that would be an all too cruel joke .

His words had a strange effect on her. For a moment, before she hastily turned away from him, he even hallucinated angry tears glittering in her eyes. Absurd, because he had never seen her on the verge of crying before. Preposterous, because he would have bet on the fact that they'd not be there, because the realization that she could have died today took two full hours to hit her.

"For somebody who claims to be so smart you're talking something that does sound remarkably like bullshit right now." The boss was back—at least that was the impression she tried to make.

And she did her best and did acceptable, but her performance was not nearly good enough. He was the expert, he noticed the little creak in her voice, the clenched fist. Sarcasm had never suited her much and the fact that she took refuge there told him how much she wanted the upper hand over him, to remind him that she was his boss.

But for all that his expertise was worth nothing because he had no idea about what she was trying so hard _not_ to think about.

"You are one to talk, Lisbon." A cruel smile distorted his lips.

And he knew then she'd be unable to leave things here. He was not only questioning her authority, he had somehow ended questioning her view on her job and the whole cop thing. Questioning who she was, that's what he had been doing. He hadn't planned on doing it, it had just happened. Sometimes, conversations just did that —even to him.

Lisbon cleared her throat and forced herself to withstand his gaze.

"I have no idea what you..." she hissed, reaching for the now certainly cold cup of coffee next to her in a hopeless attempt to steady her nerves.

"Really, Lisbon?"

Jane interrupted her impatiently while he took an impulsive step toward her. He didn't even know what he wanted to do there, probably something pointless like grapping her arm and Lisbon breaking his because of that—fortunately enough they already were in a hospital, he thought humorlessly. But whatever it would have been his sudden movement startled her enough and she ended up sweeping the cup off the table instead.

For a laughably long moment they both watched his peace offer taking a short flight in his direction, and then land in the space between them. The brown liquid splashed over the floor and the plastic cup rolled out of sight, under the bed.

"Damn it, Jane!" Lisbon growled before she grabbed a stack of paper towels.

He didn't stir and he didn't say a word. He told himself that it was because he was a coward and couldn't tell her that apparently nervousness made her inept; after all she was the one with the gun in here. A soft spoken voice in his head, one which he wanted to silence so badly and which sounded remarkably like Charlotte's told him something else: That he was sorry, again for getting rough and driving her into a corner like this, that she deserved better.

And while she moved to clean up the mess, she muttered something. Something that was probably never meant for him to hear, something he didn't really understand. "Saint", "resources" and "matter" were the few words he was able to identify unambiguously.

It was at this moment that the door opened and a very young nurse stepped in and she immediately noticed the loaded atmosphere. "I…I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll just come back in a few minutes." Something akin to panic stained her voice.

Lisbon shook her head and stopped her.

"That won't be necessary, we were done here anyway," she said with the full weight of her authority acting calm and completely ignoring him, "And I'm sorry for …this," Lisbon added while she pointed at the floor and the soggy paper towels.

Jane considered himself dismissed then.

During his drive through Sacramento, his brain kept replaying the moment in the hospital room where Lisbon had muttered those words he hadn't understood. They held the last clue to explain her strange behavior; that was a safe assumption. It took him til he was halfway through Sacramento to solve the case nevertheless. He tested the words in various orders and a few gaps remained, but he finally got the tune.

"_If I were I saint I wouldn't want to know…would it be the access to the CBI resources or me you'd mourn so eager. It wouldn't even matter."_

And when he finally did, he was on the verge of turning over, right there on the freeway just to return to the hospital. Of returning there just to shake her til she came to her senses; of continuing a fight that couldn't be won today because some things just weren't rational—fear wasn't, fundamental's weren't… and trust wasn't as well.

He knew that probably better than anyone else.

And this is why he let the moment pass and still followed traffic, still was on his way to the CBI at the end of it. Because he had to admit something: It was an ugly question but maybe, perhaps well-earned.

And a part of him was irked again, because he had told her the truth, only a few weeks ago. Maybe she hadn't listened, or she had been too stubborn to search for the truth somewhere behind jokes and silly trust falls.

"_Lisbon, I want you to know that you can trust me. No matter what happens, I'll be there for you. I will. I need you to know that."_

He couldn't help but smile at the memory then, because it was so typical of her, and of him to dance around the truth like that.

Jane fetched out his phone, flipped it open and dialed Lisbon's number.

And then he had to wait, because she didn't take his call. Maybe she couldn't because she was somewhere on the road as well, but it seemed much more likely that she just didn't want to. Either because she wasn't in the mood for struggling with him anymore or because she was embarrassed by her little outburst, the outcome was the same. It was no real surprise, the real surprise was how lost it made him feel. If he wasn't able to tell her now, he'd…

And while he was still trying to decide what to do, her voice suddenly filled the car.

"_This is Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon. I can't take your call right now, but if you leave a message…"_

He let his hand fall slowly and then completely stopped because he had just changed his mind: He would just follow the orders of that very distant Lisbon and leave her a message.

"…_I'll call you back as soon as possible."_

Jane cleared his throat. Speaking to machines had always made him feel stupid, but he had to do this. "Lisbon, for somebody so smart you seem to think something that does sound remarkably like bullshit."

He put effort into faking a cheerful voice and then he held off, again. Because he hadn't called to say something like that.

There were many things he could and should have said, things she probably wouldn't believe because sneaky remarks and disbelief were her way of protecting herself—but knowing that failed to legitimize his omission. Despite all this, was a unique possibility, because she wasn't there to brush him off.

"No, I'm sorry, that wasn't funny at all. And actually, that's not what I wanted to say." He grimaced and found himself at a loss for words, again. It wasn't like him to stutter like this, but then again it wasn't like him to tape or to be this…real. His showman camouflage felt very far away and he felt so vulnerable, but he forced himself to continue speaking.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry we argued and I'm sorry, I…You matter. Don't ever think otherwise." His voice sounded hoarse, throaty and he spoke way too quick. This was not a joke.

"So…take care of yourself, please. Let me…"

He quickly hung up then because he just couldn't say, _"Let me take care of you, you have no idea what you mean to me"._

It was neither the time nor the place for these words.

_If he ever had those psychic powers he had faked in another life, Jane would have known how wrong he was about many things, about the time when he would say this or "It's over, it's done", about Sheriff Hardy, Red John and a million other things but since there never was such a thing as psychics he had no idea then._

**_A/N: _**_So...I hoe you enjoyed and I'd be nice to hear your thoughts. _

_And in case somebody is interested, on twitter I'm trustfalls7. _


	2. White lies

**A/N**:Thanks to everyone who took interest in the first part—it means a lot to me.

And thanks to **wimmer511 **for being such a fabulous beta-reader!

**Set: **Somewhere around 2/16, Code Red ("Because it's better to be happy than sad")

**Confessions: **Janes next to last line is a Byron quote. And I drink too much coffee.

* * *

**White lies**

Jane had been acting strange today and so had Lisbon.

During the team meeting, while the rest of them were doing their jobs, like catching a killer, Jane had barely said a word. Apparently he was fully occupied with lying on his couch and pretending to be asleep. Later, when Lisbon had told him to head out with Rigsby he had flatly refused to follow her order.

His exact words had been: "As much as I'd love to obey, I'm afraid I'll have to decline this inviting offer. My best laid plans force me to stay here." A challenging glance under half closed eyelids had accompanied his latest, muttered brazenness.

And Lisbon knew she should have accepted the challenge and insist, simply force him to go like she'd have done weeks or month ago. But not today. Today, her mind was engaged elsewhere and she just couldn't summon the energy to struggle with one of his silly moods. On this forenoon she simply settled for squinting her eyes a second too long and retorting with a half-assed snappy remark.

"Fine. Just stay here until you start to rot. Cho, you go."

Lisbon waved dismissively, turned on her heel and headed for her office where a probably long and definitely exhausting talk with the D.A.s office awaited her. She didn't miss the disbelieving looks the team tried to exchange behind her back, though, and they only confirmed what she already knew: She had just made a mistake. Cutting him slack like that made her look tattered, nonprofessional and Jane would take advantage of that, sooner or later. _Probably sooner than later_, she thought with a trace of humor, it wasn't like him to waste time when he could create confusion.

He always did.

"Morning, Lisbon." The lukewarm greeting of the passing agent Wiks from the gang unit snapped her out of her thoughts and she realized that she had been staring into space—and that she had nearly raced the other agent round in doing so. _Great, just great._ Any more of this and people would start to assume that she was losing it. And maybe, these people would hit close enough to home.

_Next week you'll have to be a little more convincing, _she silently reminded herself for the millionth time during the last few weeks.

Next week it had to be, because by then the new boss was supposed to arrive—and today and the ones following weren't supposed to be pleasant for anybody in the building least of all for her team or herself.

"New brooms sweep clean", that was how the proverb went. Unfortunately she had already seen two new bosses come and grow old to know that it was much more than a hackneyed old saying, especially in law enforcement.

Hightower would be bent on proving that she had earned her tough-as-nails reputation the hard way and she'd start with cleaning up the smaller sloppiness and greater squalidness that had crept in during her predecessor's regency. It was a current method, after all, Lisbon had tried the same when she made her way up in SAC PD. It sounded ludicrous today, but there had been a time when she used to make secret lists of the things that needed close observation. Nothing fancy to that, really.

But time was the factor here. Or in other words: "had been" was the ugly sticking point.

Because today she could barely remember the person that used to make these silly lists. She had changed a lot since then, _she_ _had_ _been_ _changed_ a lot since then, and now the new boss would find enough rule violations to clean up under her own supervision.

A dragging pain in her neck made her pause. It was the kind of sting that would grow into a real, steady cramp too soon— she knew that first hand. In addition she felt a little queasy because she had skipped breakfast to get to the crime scene in time and if she wanted to survive this day without falling asleep standing she'd need a painkiller and a cup of coffee. At least.

Lisbon stopped at the kitchenette and she was unreasonably relieved to find it empty. While she waited for the machine to perform it's magic, she choked down a couple of tablets and then something bubbled up inside her mind: She could make a list of her flaws too—to keep her mind focused, to kill the waiting time. For old time's sake, for that younger Officer Lisbon that was lost beyond recall already. Naturally, no pen or paper would be involved. Writing down something like that would make her feel completely unprofessional and it bore the risk that the one person who'd dare to snoop around her office would find it.

It was easy enough to set out her Senior Agent sins anyway.

The first: One safety hazard in form of a consultant, who was out to commit a capital crime himself and owned a club of enemies that included both half of the state of California and a dangerous serial killer? Check.

The second: Two agents involved in a romantic and strictly-against-office-policies relationship? Double Check.

The third and her favorite point: Herself, the head of the unit. The one who let them all do what they did because she didn't want to lose anybody for whom she had come to care far too much. The representative of the law that didn't play by the books anymore; the one that went along with breaking the rules, lying and blackmailing when necessary, the one with the many blind spots. The one that closed more cases and caught more bad guys, the one that did more good. The one who juggled with complaints and lawsuits, _the better one._

Triple check. Guilty as charged.

The consoling smell of hot coffee finally surrounded her and with a small smile, she pressed her damp fingers against the cup, before she puffed repeatedly and took it to her lips. She would probably burn her mouth, but that wasn't the point. It was like being six-years-old again, years before her world had crashed for the first time and playing "I dare you" all by herself. If she drank his now, she'd immediately feel better—as if coffee was a magic potion. It would make her feel strong and full of energy, professional and…undamaged. Fine, maybe she overdid it, but she craved, so much, to feel better, to feel like the person she had been one year ago .

A sudden loud smack against the doorframe broke the spell and startled her enough to make a few drops spill over and burn her fingers.

Lisbon didn't need to turn around and look at the intruder. Maybe it was because of her innate trouble radar or maybe it was the way her hackles raised and her empty stomach made itself known again, but either way she just knew.

"Jane. What do you want?" she hissed, while she hastily set down the mug and waved her hands in an attempted to cool them.

"What a wide question," he answered soulful, whereas he stepped next to her and casually reached for his boiler. She watched him pour in the water and light the gas flame and for a split second she thought about slapping him. She was in no mood for this kind of crap. All she wanted was to be left alone and drink this damned coffee and because Jane was Jane he knew. He always knew more than he was ought to, after all that was why the CBI had hired him in the first place.

It also made him dangerous to be around.

"I'll tell you, but only because it's you," he went on—pestilent, blithesome, "In the long term that would be what we all want, but in the short term…" Jane winked and presented his empty cyan cup and saucer "I'll have to content myself with a cup of tea."

Lisbon clenched her teeth and snatched the sugar caster. Out of the corner of her eye she watched her consultant open the cupboard and wave between the different kinds of tea while he quietly hummed to himself. She squinted. Maybe if she ignored him, he would grow tired of messing with her and just vanish. Otherwise…she had no idea what to do in this case; maybe she had to shoot him. All she knew for sure was that the more vivid he appeared the heavier she felt her own exhaustion.

"Eureka." Apparently pleased, he took out a box and fetched a tea bag out of it. Lisbon stared stolidly ahead and kept adding sugar. As if he were completely unsuspecting, as if he had all the time of the world he poured the boiling water into his cup, still humming while doing so.

And then he paused and Lisbon found herself piping down because she finally saw through this little siege. So much for chitchat about "best laid plans," his couch and tea, he was getting at something. And she even had a pretty accurate foreboding regarding that something. It would be right on the mark, it would be outrageous, not case-related, _and_ she did not want to hear it. Not for the world.

Because maybe, just _maybe_, she was a tad afraid of it.

And conveniently she didn't have to stay here and listen to him. She even had a professional sounding excuse for backing off again: her urgent call with the D.A.s office. And really, she should have been on the phone by now anyway instead of wasting her time here with him. She reached for her coffee but Jane got the drop on her.

"You shouldn't drink this, Lisbon."

Lisbon blinked. Once, twice—but that didn't make him disappear or his statement less irritating.

"Why not?" She asked grumpily as she eyed him suspiciously.

"Ah." Jane grinned triumphantly, but his eyes remained searching and unfazed. "For two reasons. Number one: because during your understandable, but _childish_ attempts to ignore me you've already put in way too much sugar. And number two…" He leaned forward and snatched the cup away while he spoke "...it's not healthy."

Lisbon frowned. "Jane? Are you sick?" She got on her tiptoes and pretended to check if he had a temperature, her hand hovering inches away from his forehead, (because touching him would have been too much, wouldn't it?) If he was going to play silly games so would she—at least for the moment. "It's just coffee. I drink it all the time, maybe you remember that?" She emphasized each word carefully, acted as if she really was dealing with a mentally troubled patient.

"Oh. Thanks for the enlightenment, I didn't know that." Jane rolled his eyes to let her know that he just had to endure incredible stupidity on her part and hadn't already fled out of pure generosity.

"We both know it's more than just coffee." And there it was—the suggestion she had been afraid off.

Of course he was right, it wasn't just coffee. For weeks her body had been running on coffee and cheap imitations of real sleep, ever since her world had crashed for the second time not so long ago. And ever since she had been feeling tattered and out of whack and at the same time anxious to hide that form everyone around her.

Because Sam Bosco was dead and they were alive.

She cleared her throat and averted her gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar." The tone appeared to be cheerful, but she knew him well enough to notice the little edge in his voice, the one she couldn't quite place. Impatient, regretful, wistful, something in between. Or maybe she didn't know him at all and it was only in her head, because she wanted him to feel that way. Everything was possible with Patrick Jane—always.

"But I'll humor you. What time is it, eleven? And it's your fifth…" She shook her head fiercely and made an attempt to cut in on him but he just grimaced and carried on "…No, your sixth one. Really, Lisbon? That can't be healthy."

Sometimes, sometimes she _almost_ hated him.

"So now you are watching over my caffeine intake? I'm fine, thanks a lot." She folded her arms and smiled drily.

So maybe she was not just yet fine, but he was the last person on earth she was willing to admit that to. Well, actually there wasn't anyone she'd confess something like that to, but still…She was the boss, she was the one fixing things, and she couldn't appear weak. Least of all to him.

Besides, she was feeling better already. Really, thanks also to him, even if it seemed farfetched at this particular moment. There was no need to put up a fuss. She had it all under control. As always.

Jane watched her closely. Something like a smile crinkled his lips and for another moment, Lisbon was afraid he'd just say it. But then he shook his head, hardly noticeable and made do with saying, "Somebody has to."

"I'm not lying!" she claimed, hell bent on ignoring his last statement and everything that could possibly have followed in the wake of it.

Jane caused her trouble, he was sometimes bothersome, and nearly always useful because he kept the solve rates high, and one fine day he'd get her fired. That was the deal and she better kept in mind what she had signed for.

"Besides, I haven't even had that many!" Lisbon hastily added, hoping to get away with it and already suspecting that she was fighting a losing battle here.

"Meh. Sixth is exactly the number," he said in a singsong voice, before he set down her mug on the fridge, leaned back and started listing her coffee crimes.

"The first and the second were in your office, you worked past midnight again because you were so sure you wouldn't be able to sleep anyway and because sleeping pills are not an option for you. Wise call, by the way." Jane dipped his tea bag twice before he threw it into the trash can. "You drank the third at home after you were called in for the case, stopped for the fourth on the way to the crime scene. How am I doing so far?"

"Crappy. Trust me, you are not even close." Lisbon clenched her teeth. She had seen him play the same cat-and-mouse game with suspects many times before and she was sure that she'd never grow tired of it, when it was useful and case related, but this was an entirely different story.

It was too easy to misunderstand things. This, all this, meant nothing. Not to him and not to her—if she was wise.

"That good? You flatter me. So—where was I?" He smiled in false modesty and then looked down at his leg and carefully flattened the fabric. This time, she didn't have to search for undertones in his voice. "Ah, yes. The fifth was offered to you by that guy from Sac PD who has had his eyes on you for weeks. What's his name again? Wench? Trench?"

He hadn't forgotten the name, it was just another variation of the same game—she'd have bet her badge on that. He was trying to embarrass her and it worked splendidly.

"The name is Officer Hench," Lisbon interrupted him, already blushing without reason. With a little effort she managed to recall a man with brown hair and a bright smile who had lifted the police line a few times for her and who had asked her if she'd take care of an abandoned coffee at the crime scene this morning. "And has not been eying me, he was just being decent by offering me a spare cup!" She folded her arms and gave him a triumphant smile, not so sure why she made such a big point out of this.

"Please, Lisbon?" He grimaced at her sorrowfully, the rhetorical question, _Don't you know that I'm always right?_ practically flashing over his head. "You'd really think he'd miscount the people in his unit? Don't make the poor guy dumber than he already is."

In this moment, the most ridiculous thought flickered into her mind: Jane not liking the idea of other men paying attention to her…because he was somewhat jealous. The very idea was absurd. Absurd enough to tell him, to share a laugh or two about it together but she didn't. She was well aware of the fact that she was into that particular thought just a tiny bit too much.

And Teresa Lisbon wasn't one for self-delusion.

"Whatever," she concluded, trying to wipe the slate clean—under this silly conversation as well as her own ascending confusion. Even if he stopped this nonsense now and gave her coffee back, it was probably cold by now.

She rubbed the root of her nose and then looked at her phone with ostentation. The D.A.'s Office was still waiting and all she had done in the past few minutes was wasting time here with him. Great job, really.

"If you have no other information to share, I…" She pushed past him.

Jane cut her off. "Oh, I do have new information. Plenty, actually." He didn't smile and for the kind of talk they had, his voice suddenly held too much steel. "Such as the fact that the poet Balzac drank himself to death with coffee."

_And that…explained it all, didn't it?_

Lisbon turned back. This time, she didn't need to pretend how much he confounded her or how little she had seen that one coming.

"Nice. Fortunately, I'm not a poet." She cracked a sneer. "Really Jane, you read too much."

He lifted his cup to his mouth and enjoyed a sip, eyes closed and apparently too absorbed to answer.

Lisbon knew she should simply consider their talk finished and leave, but curiosity got the better of her. "Is that really possible? I mean—how did he do it? How much did he drink?"

"About eighty cups a day—at his worst," Jane answered dismissively, before he put away his cup with a chinking sound, "and if you keep this up, you'll be catching up with him soon." He approached her, his eyes never leaving her face. "But that's not the point."

"And what _is_ the point?" she retorted, impatient and just a little breathless. All she could think of was that he was standing too close now. She could faintly smell his aftershave and heard his clothes rustle when he moved. It made her heart flutter just a little. She tried to suppress the rising panic. It was the duet of painkillers and coffee in her empty stomach, nothing more but still…This was not good.

In spite of that, she forced herself not to flinch. If she did, she'd give herself away more than she'd already done and this was exactly what she couldn't have. Not with Jane being Jane.

"Ah, Lisbon." He lowered his eyes and smiled bashfully. "Just one last thing before we forget this conversation, you know…"

And suddenly there was no more foolishness.

"I want you to be well, always. Nothing can happen to you, it would be..."

"Oh, shut up already!" Lisbon exclaimed and the moment the words were out she knew that she had slipped up. What she had attempted had been a tone of easy mockery and weariness and what she had managed had been a dangerous mixture of a laugh and a sob. She couldn't miss the sharp creak in her own voice and she didn't need to look at him to confirm that he hadn't missed it either.

It was just…Nobody had warned her that looking after herself would become this exhausting or confusing. Not at the academy and not afterwards. She was pretty sure it was never meant to be that way.

"Just don't say those things. I know better, I'm not..." Her voice trailed off. '_I'm not dumb_', that was what she had thought of and what she didn't say.

Because sometimes he said things, like, "You can trust me", "I'll be there for you, no matter what happens," like "you matter," or "It's gonna be all right, it's gonna be fine, I promise", but he didn't mean them.

He didn't. He just said them because they seemed useful to him, because deep down he was still a conman trying to sell his product. The words weren't real. None of them. Never.

Jane needed this job to do the one thing he really cared about—taking vengeance on Red John. She had known that from the start. He'd been honest about _that_, always. He'd use everything, them, her, anything to get there. That was a fact and she could live with it—as long as the boundaries were clear.

But the boundaries became blurred every time he actually _did_ those things. Like shooting his best lead to save her life or like believing in her innocence when the rest of the world including herself had at least had second thoughts. It made her think stupid things and sometimes she thought she couldn't live with that.

"No, you are not," Jane affirmed, passing over the fact that she hadn't said another word. "You're far from that. You're authoritarian, have a violent temper, are sometimes way too stubborn and distressingly political but no…never dull."

"I suppose that was meant to be a compliment…But don't you think it's kinda cheesy?" It was a bad joke and her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.

He passed over that. Instead, he reached out slowly, left her enough time to avoid his touch, and then ever so slightly patted her shoulder. "But you still haven't figured it all out. That's a shame, Teresa."

Absent-minded she touched her cross pendant and then wearily nodded her head.

And even if she did make concessions to that more honest part of herself and admitted that having him around actually felt nice and even if she did let him wreak havoc with her mind, and believe that he meant it when he said those words, that still didn't mean that…

That she was going to keep him.

Steps, laughter voices. A group of four agents form Missing Persons Unit entered the kitchenette and the all-too-familiar mixture of ease and disappointment washed over Lisbon.

"We are not interrupting anything, are we?" One of them asked.

"No, of course not." She shook her head and tried to make it sound like the most ridiculous idea on earth.

Jane turned back to his tea and she got on her tiptoes and finally got hold of her mug. Just as she had expected it was less than lukewarm so she poured it away and made herself, maybe being a tiny bit childish, a new one. Out of the corner of her eye she felt Jane's smile and forced herself to focus on the words buzzing around her. Apparently, rumor had it that Senior Agent Brown, (married, Narcotics,) and Agent Wade, (filing for divorce, Gang Unit,) were having a hot and forbidden affair. Apparently they were seen spending too much time together, standing to close, backing off when others arrived—the kind of things that nearly always got the rumor mill in motion.

And maybe Jane had been right and she had too much coffee already but judging by the prying looks and the subject of conversation she couldn't help but ask herself whether the same kind of rumor was in the air about her and Jane.

If they really were thinking something like that, they were way off. Way, way off.

And judging by the mischievous glint in his eyes, he was well aware of these possible rumors, and definitely had been for much longer than she had been.

No wonder, but still…_That son of a bitch_.

It was so much easier to be mad at him and those who talked than at herself. She had been a cop long enough to know that most rumors had a petty true core, and she did not want to know where this one had come from. All she could do now was to smother this ludicrous stuff. Fast.

She cleared her throat to call the attention of her annoying colleagues. "If you think…"

Jane broke in on her, still smiling his damned smile. "Oh, please Lisbon! Don't deny it, they won't believe you. Where there's smoke there's fire, that's what they'll say."

The conversation of their colleagues abruptly died down. One head after another turned towards them.

Nothing was wrong with his words, if she faced facts he was probably right—squashing rumors was virtually impossible, in most cases you had to wait till people found out that they were not true or til they grew tired of them. But everything was wrong with the way he said the words. His voice was too soft, too intimate and because he only looked at her, she was the only one who saw him wink.

"You should pass on the coffee. Just let me make you a nice, healthy cup of tea, will you?" He asked hypocritically and Lisbon clenched her teeth. Before she could cut in on him, he did more harm and proceeded, "Would you prefer chamomile or peppermint? Both of them have a very calming effect, just what you need right now."

Slack-jawed, she stared at him, feeling the rise of blood to her face already. Oh. _That. Son. Of. A. Bitch._ If there hadn't been rumors before, they were now. And on top of everything people would probably wonder if she was pregnant and start to congratulate her, but that was okay as long as Mister Jane was enjoying himself—and because she would be the one to pay the consequences. The prying eyes and bloody stupid questions to last a month, included.

Lisbon squinted and closed her mouth. By now, all eyes rested on her or her belly and no matter what she said or did now, the damage had already been done.

On some days, she really did hate him.

She did the only thing she felt she could do: She turned on her heel and stormed off.

* * *

No sixth coffee, then.

About half an hour later, in the midst of her call with the D.A.'s office, which had turned out exactly the way she had expected it to, her office door slowly opened and Jane's head appeared.

She gestured for him to get lost, that she was still mad at him, but he ignored it. Instead, he entered on mock tiptoes, carrying a dinner tray with a cup of tea and a paper bag on it. A delicious smelling paper bag form Maries, to be precise.

"Tis strange," he declaimed in a low voice while he set it down of the table before her, "but true; for truth is always strange; Stanger than fiction."

He winked and then he was already at the door where he turned one last time:

"More poets, less caffeine."

And all Lisbon could do was stare. Ardilles had to call her name three times before she answered him.


	3. Clover and crimson

**A/N:** A huge "thank you" to **LouiseKurylo **and **Reader** (since I couldn't respond to you personally: I'm gald you enjoyed and sorry for the long waiting time-I had a rough time then.)

Another huge "thank you" to **Gabiroba **for betaing this!

**Set: **Season 3, before and after "Strawberries and Creem"Clover and crimson-Kaleidoscope

* * *

**"**_What have I become, my sweetest friend?  
Everyone I know goes away in the end" _

(Nine Inch Nails: Hurt/Johnny Cash Cover)

**I) One day **

"Ah, there you are, Lisbon…" Jane muttered, his voice all drowsy and with eyes focused on the sky. A few seconds elapsed without him saying or doing anything, and just when she started to ask herself if he was still with her he went on, "The clouds are rolling in fast. Have you noticed that?"

Lisbon rolled her eyes in response, before she quickly lifted her coffee mug to her mouth to hide the smile she found herself unable to fight. She wasn't supposed to smile, not at all. It wasn't appropriate or helpful, and it was certainly not what she had followed him here for. What she had followed him here for was to drag him back to the crime scene he had strolled away from; to be stern and bugged and…bossy. Actually, "bossy" seemed to be the perfect word.

But the truth was, stumbling across this ridiculously peaceful, picturesque, postcard-like idyll made being bossy a difficult task. It featured rolling green hills, large fields of bloomed sunflowers, a sky that was still blue enough, and a group of trees she now turned her back on. And it featured Jane. He lay in the grass, sleeves rolled up, his jacket serving him as a pillow, and on top of that he even had a blade of grass in the corner of his mouth.

All set for the big "Country Living" cover shooting, huh?

Clouds and rain were just the kind of random things he'd suddenly focus on; she should have been used to that by now. That was the problem with him. Or maybe part of the problem was, she corrected herself, that there were just too many other things complicated about him. Another part was that this was just the kind of setting she'd find him in.

"No, must have slipped my mind. Weird, huh?" She snorted. Maybe her heart wasn't really in it, but that wouldn't stop her from saying the right things.

This was probably the real problem: that the sight affected her at all, that she would even care. No more bigger and smaller parts, but the whole, damned thing; Jane seemed so at ease, so happy. It was almost painful to look at him when he was like that.

That was the problem with her.

Lisbon lowered her eyes and took another sip of her coffee.

Their latest talk about Red John still troubled her, and how could it not? She had promised him, '_to stop him from doing anything foolish when the time came'_ once more, and she would keep that promise. She simply had to. Revenge was wrong, but even that was just part of the problem. Jane was so hell-bent on fulfilling his dreams of murdering the man who had stolen his family away from him that he couldn't care about it, but she could care—and she did, much more than she should have, but she wasn't going to think about that now.

Lisbon knew that she had to do it for his sake as well. She was the one who cared for "the time after", and that made her the only one who could protect him from the harshness of the law. For the judges and the prosecutors he would just be like any common murderer, and they would treat him like one. Likely, they would consider him something worse; try to make an example of someone who had taken the law into his own hands. Maybe he hadn't comprehended it yet, but he wasn't the only one who could be stubborn…and selfish. She wasn't even sure if selfish was the right word, but then again, she couldn't silence the little voice in her head that kept reminding her that there was a reason why she had always despised the silly "Saint Teresa" nickname.

Whatever her real motives were, she wouldn't allow him to throw his life away like that.

It brought her back to where she had started: She simply had to make sure that he didn't do anything foolish, to hell with what happened after that. Period.

But at moments like these, she found the wrong questions haunting her mind: Would she make in time, be able to be there? Would Jane allow her to be there or would he find a way to leave her behind—he had done that before umpteen times, hadn't he? Would she still want to stop him, even though she would have to take the consequences on her conscience? As far as the consequences were concerned, she had no illusions; they would be heavy, even heartrending: She would lose him. Not being able to kill Red John would _do_ something to him, and it would make him hate her for sure.

He'd walk out of her life, out of the CBI, never to come back.

But after days and weeks and months, he'd understand that it had been the right thing to do and he'd come back (Note here: He'd come back to them, not to her, and that would be enough) and they'd catch bad guys and argue just like they used to. She clung to that faint hope. It would happen that way, right?

And there was another question mark, another thing she tried to push to the back of her mind most of the time. Time… How much had they left? When would the day come? Would they catch Red John tomorrow, next week, in a month, in a year, in ten years?

Had he planted these thoughts and feelings in her or were they something neither of them had had any influence on, just a cruel little giveaway of the universe?

Lisbon shook her head and tried to shake the ugly thoughts off as well. If she started to blame the universe, she was starting to lose it for sure, which was the last thing they needed. Somebody had to be calm and rational. Or at least, somebody had to pretend to be.

When the time came, she would have to deal with the whole mess.

_They would be all right_. Nothing was lost yet.

And in the mean time, she would focus on _this_ murder and _this_ crime scene. The one with the dead bank executive, the missing unspecified-heavy-object murder weapon, and the address book filled with important friends. Unconsciously she stood to attention and forced herself to focus on the things she had come here for.

"You know what? It could be because this happens to be a crime scene."

A crime scene she had almost forgotten about herself, but he didn't know that. And since Jane couldn't actually read minds, there was no way he'd find it out.

"That must have slipped _my_ mind," he remarked, mimicking her words from before, "And I hate to be the stickler here, but you are wrong, Lisbon. This is not a crime scene. The crime scene is _somewhere_ down there, where you have come from." Lethargically he raised his arm to point in the right direction.

'_Thanks a lot, smartass,' _she thought ungraciously.

And then he simply picked up where he had left off: "It will rain hard, probably starting sometime in the evening."

"So now you are running a weather report?" Lisbon smirked at her consultant and shuffled her feet. "That's great! Let me tell the boss about it. I bet he'll jump for joy."

"Yeah, please do that. But do me a favor and let me be there too. I am sure the sight will be spectacular."

Her heart tightened a little at the words he had said so easily, that "Let me be there too," and she tried on to put on a front.

"Very funny," she smiled humorlessly and tapped his leg with her feet. "Come on, let's go."

"Where to?" He asked, dreamy.

This time Lisbon's answer was a real, hopefully painful, kick.

"Ouch! Why so violent?" He whined, but he also finally sat up and put the silly blade of grass aside. "Hmm, let me think about that. Stay here, enjoy this beautiful place and the peace and quiet in it while I still can, or come with you to deal with the chunk formerly known as an unpleasant man and lots of tiresome people…yeah, it's a tough call, but I think I'll go for staying."

"No, you won't!" she growled threatening.

A smile spread over his face before he sank down again. "Oh, I will. And you should sit down with me."

"Jane, I can't do that."

For some unfathomable reason, the wrong words had come out of her mouth in the wrong tone. She shouldn't have said them so reluctant, and she should have said something a little more bossy, something like "Certainly not" or "I won't do that", because now it sounded like she secretly wanted to do something this stupid.

Which was not true. Not at all. There was not even a shred of truth in it.

"Sure you can. The dead guy will stay dead and Cho is a big boy, he'll manage. And you can do something for yourself for a change, relax a little. And if that's not enough to tempt you, I promise you'll do something useful as well, because there is a cloud that looks exactly like the murder weapon the tech guys still haven't found."

Automatically, she threw her head back to take a look at that mysterious cloud, but it was just like she had expected. According to Jane, they would have to start dealing with a gigantic, pillow-like object in a smoky color. Great. Mister Johnson's head wound looked nothing like that, but she could already hear herself explaining that to the locals; they would love it for sure. But before she got to mention something like that, he got ahead of her,

"No cheating, Lisbon." He didn't even open his eyes. Her instincts told her to kick him again, harder than before this time. "The magic only works from the right angle."

"And I guess that's your angle?"

"Have I ever told you how smart you are?" He claimed smugly and, while she was still trying to decide whether she would kick him, turn on her heel to go back to the crime scene alone or actually do the inappropriate thing and give in, Jane suddenly patted the grass next to him invitingly and added, "Please, Lisbon?"

There was a trace of real pleading in his voice, and even though she had no idea why he would even care, it was that trace that won her over.

"Fine," she acknowledged, still reluctant and already feeling the corners of her mouth twitching "But just a minute, and there'd better be such a cloud."

Some things just couldn't be helped.

She set down beside him, with her knees bent and her eyes focused on the sky.

No magic, no ridiculously formed cloud.

"Just pie in the sky with you, huh? I want my money back."

Of course not, but that was all right. Jane smiled.

"Money isn't everything, grasshopper. You want your own blade of grass?"

"Ugh. No, thank you."

But with the sun rays tingling on her face, the warm wind playing with her hair, and Jane being so close, she had to admit something: Maybe the magic had actually worked, only in a slightly different way, because he had been right about one thing: It really was a beautiful place.

**III) The other day**

Jane could tell them that they are fussing, that he isn't dangerous, and that they can put their guns down.

He hasn't fallen into a murderous frenzy, and he isn't going to run anywhere, so there's no need for all this, but he is pretty sure that they wouldn't believe him. To do those watchmen justice, he recognizes their error in judgment as excusable, given the fact that he has just shot a man three times, that he has killed that man. They can't know that in killing that ordinary-looking, middle-aged man, Jane has killed his nemesis, that he has wreaked vengeance on a monster, that he has finally destroyed Red John. Maybe someone will tell them, maybe they'll hear it on the news or they will never know since he's not going to spoil this moment with words.

This moment belongs to him alone.

Therefore, the guns and the handcuffs, and therefore the transport, the sirens, and the cars filled with police officers escorting it. They take him to the prison, and they watch him carefully all the way, as if they expect him to perform some kind of elaborate stunt and run.

The time for stunts of all kinds, the cheap ones and the expensive ones, is over, but that's another thing they can't know.

Maybe they have heard of him, and think it's too good to last with him, because he is certainly the calmest madmen they have ever seen.

That's all right; it doesn't matter because _it's over_. He has done it. He is free, and very likely he will never be free again. Right now an amazingly long list of things doesn't make sense that way.

Tomorrow some cops will take over this heaven-sent case. The gift includes a dozen witnesses, a murder weapon covered with fingerprints, and a murderer who will confess to his act. Answering their questions, being this murderer, will be his new life, and thankfully he has already lived a few different lives so this one is just another one he'll find his way into.

In his first life, he had been a boy wonder at carnie fairs; in his second life, a loving husband and father, and a fraud. He has had Angela and Charlotte, and happiness until his darkest night, where he lost it all. His third life is a blur, filled with an overwhelmingly painful sense of loss and futility, accompanied by white, the red smiley face, a straightjacket, and a friendly voice. In his fourth life, he has been a consultant for the CBI; he has had Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, and van Pelt keeping him company, and he has been hunting the man who has painted his world red.

And now he is a prison inmate.

He unclenches his fist and looks at his wedding band.

It's all right.

In another life, just a few days ago, he picked up that, according to the myth, cats have six, seven, or nine lives—the exact number varies and depends on the area of the world you live in. He has started his fifth life on this day. The thought is almost promising.

Well, almost.

Back to making predictions about his immediate future, the faceless cops will probably have researched him on the internet, or they'll have skimmed over his file and therefore fooled themselves into believing they know anything about him, or maybe they won't have taken the time yet. They'll ask their questions, probably perform the classic "good cop, bad cop" routine. For sure they'll bore him with his rights and ask him if he wants a legal adviser present. Most of it is standard procedure; he has witnessed it many times, sometimes with the possibility of this day in the back of his mind. Jane already knows that he'll decline the offer, he doesn't need advice.

He has never been particularly good in following them anyway.

The blue prison clothing and the cell are old acquaintances of his. After all, he has been there before, when Bosco had him sent to jail for bugging his office. Lisbon had been so mad at him, she had been so stubborn, but in the end she had also made sure that he didn't need to stay in jail. The memory makes him smile.

The ensuing thought wipes the smile from his face like a slap and it leaves behind a bitter taste. The law will keep him in jail this time; there is nothing she can do for him, nothing he can ask her to do. It's too late. He has crossed the line. Lisbon will be mad again, and he won't be there to grin, and joke, and smooth her ruffled feathers—they can no longer be that way.

_(But she has known from the start that this would have to end someday, hasn't she?)_

Jane swallows hard._ 'That's all right_,' he reminds himself. This time placing special emphasis on it, '_it has to be all right, because it's over_.'

This is all he has wanted, and therefore he is now at peace with the world—well, as much as it's possible for him.

The bitter taste seems unwilling to fade, though.

For Lisbon, Jane fabricates, he has just been a byproduct of the job she cares so much about, some necessity. He has always needed her more, and in a different way, than she has needed him, and so, she'll be fine without him. Having him no longer in the big picture will make her job so much easier, and she'll live, and be all right, and maybe a tiny bit sad about his disappearance, but not too much and not too long, and soon, she will have forgotten about him.

Lying to oneself, Jane detects, remains the easiest thing to do, even now, even here.

He tries hard to imagine that future Lisbon, happy and successful, with a nice man that takes good care of her – a man that is better than Mashburn, better than him, because she deserves to be happy, but he tries in vain. All he can see right now is that she'll wake up after the operation in a room in the hospital, and he won't be there. She'll hear about what he has done from somebody else and she won't be happy for him; instead, she'll clench her teeth and fight tears, and blame herself because she wasn't able to keep her promise. She is like that, his angry little princess.

He doesn't want her to forget about him.

Jane closes his eyes and sinks back against the cold, white wall. It's awfully quiet in here, he can even kid himself into believing he is underwater. All the sounds he remembers from his last visit seem to have been turned down. No guards, no heavy steps, no clinking coming from a bunch of keys. No other inmates here or in the surrounding cells that shout, snort or mutter their conversations – well, there have to be some, the force of logic tells him that it can't be just him, but he can't hear them. This is a solitary cell; this is his own fish tank.

Maximum security is the magic word or, if he pretends to give a damn about details for a change, it's the magic combination of words. Either way, it means that he'll get to stay alone with himself for the night. The dead won't come to visit, they never do, and the living… They have other, more pressing, things to do.

He could have spared her so much pain if he had just stayed who he wanted to be: A lone wolf, on the outside charming, talkative, and pretending to care because you simply catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and on the inside: cold and callous for the living. But he had never been able to be that way.

The truth is, he has needed these moments that weren't crimson, and dishonest, and cold, but different, warm.

The truth is he has gotten caught in his own con.

The truth is: that con ended in blue smoke years ago.

His greatest selflessness, his greatest selfishness, only a few hours apart. Funny thing is, he has never thought about leaving Lisbon in this abandoned school with a bomb vest on her, but he has left her now.

At least he hadn't taken the risk of trying to take her hand on the hill that day—not that he hasn't thought about it, (he thought about it a lot that day) but still. Either he would have ended with broken fingers or a wounded pride it would have made everything so much more complicated.

'_Because the truth is, he loves_…' he chokes the thought off quickly. This is a night to celebrate. He has done the right thing. He has killed Red John, he has freed himself. This is not a night to torture oneself with all the things that couldn't be.

His memory palace dances before his eyelids, tempting. The great calm hasn't yet begun; maybe he is too hyped up to welcome it. So, he is in for another sleepless night. He'll spend a long time wandering through his memory palace. He might as well just start now.

There are places he has to go to, lives he has to flip through, and moments he has to relive. Because they have made him, they'll wash away the bitter taste and remind him of why everything is alright now.

For the nonsense there is no system. He just flings the doors open and lets it wash over him, lets himself get swamped away by that vortex of emotions and memories. Later he'll tidy it all up, methodical and piece by piece, but not now, not today. It's not like time means anything anymore.

Slowly, a smile spreads across his face.

This is the part of the truth he is able to admit: He'll miss his fourth live.

And hopefully, Lisbon will come to visit him.

He'll be waiting for this day.

**II) **

The sun broke through the clouds.

Looking right into the glare of the sun forced Lisbon to squint, her vision blurred.

It was like waking up, not because there had been an urgent call, the alarm rang too early, or she had had a nightmare, but waking up because the body was so filled with sleep that it didn't need any more of it. She had done that, in a far-off time, waking up and for a split second not knowing whether she was already awake, or the reality around her was still part of a dream.

For a moment, she played that game, thought about how it would be if she had actually dreamed all this, dreamed him. She would wake up from the craziest dream of her life, open her eyes in a life without constant complaints, reproaches by superiors, and threats of lawsuits, her career still undamaged and she on her way to the top. In this life, the Red John case would never have become such a personal matter. Of course, there would have been wearily, lonely times, but never these moments filled with nameless fear and a darkness she was already too familiar with.

And still, in spite of everything, she wouldn't want this life.

The good things in the life she had still gained the upper hand over the bad things. Catching bad guys was the right thing to do, she had a team that had become some kind of family, she had moments like this, she had…

"Hey, Lisbon?" Jane nudged her arm with the back of his hand, and his touch chased away that dream world. "Are you dreaming?"

"Don't be silly," she retorted, maybe a second too late, "I've been thinking about the Johnson case."

"Sure you have, with eyes closed and all that," he jested leniently.

As a rewarded, she struck a blow at him which turned out much more gentle then originally intended. "I have!"

Out of the blue, Jane sat up and held out his arm.

"For you."

Something lay in the palm of his hand, some green stuff. Lisbon took it and eyed it suspicious. Botany had never been her strong suit; plants were just so silent, boring, and _green_. Yet, surprisingly enough, she was able to tell what it was: A clover, a three-leaf one.

"What's this?"

"Take a wild guess." He shrugged, but his eyes stayed keen. Maybe it was just her imagination, but behind all his mockery and smiles he suddenly seemed tense, wary.

Lisbon rolled her eyes, "I know what a clover is, I just wonder…aren't these things supposed to have four leaves?"

"Meh, details. I found none and besides, it's a mere token gesture." For a moment, he seemed to be preoccupied, but then he shook his head and smiled ruefully, "You'll be alright, always."

A warm wind blew through her hair and she had to brush some strands out of her face.

It was a strange thing to say. He said it in a wrong way with a hoarse voice, and it made Lisbon feel uncomfortable, but she refused to talk about the elephant in the room. She didn't ask, _'How will you be?'_ and she didn't ask _'Why would you want to promise me something like that—shouldn't it be natural?'_ because she didn't need to. Carrying a gun and a badge, dealing with bad guys and going to dark, dangerous places sometimes meant nothing.

Instead, she did the safe thing and took refuge in well-known patterns.

"That sounds awfully like a promise."

Jane rubbed his hand and his wedding band flashed up in the sunlight. "Yeah, it could be one. Do you want it to be one, then?"

"No. Yes. Well, maybe. I mean, it's just…"

She got into a muddle.

He was the only one who asked questions she just couldn't answer—and sometimes, she hated him for that. Because… What was she supposed to say? There were many things she couldn't ask for and there were only two possibilities of what would happen. Number one was that she'd have to hear him lie or offer evasive emptiness, which was equally bad. Number two was he'd tell her more of his cold truths, and she wanted neither. The outcome would be the same; they'd just both feel badly after it.

Another thing she had never liked was that empty talk about loving someone and setting him free.

There were different sorts of love, she didn't love him at all, not one little bit, but…still. Where had that word even come from?

_Deniability, Lisbon, your best friend._

She swallowed hard and then choked on the words. "It's not like you would keep—"

"Boss, they've found something. Better take a look at it."

Cho saved her. Or Cho had bad timing; maybe they all had.

Either way, he suddenly climbed up the hill. His look was blank, as usual, and if he considered any of this as remarkable or inappropriate, he didn't show it. Instead, he just turned and made his way back to the crime scene.

Good old Cho.

Lisbon hastily got up and wiped some dust from her pants.

"Well, looks like duty calls," she claimed with fake cheerfulness, still feeling shaky and almost running after Cho without looking back. Jane didn't need to see her blush.

Later, she shoved the clover into her pocket. And much later, at home, she carefully placed it in a glass of water, next to a paper frog.

She normally wasn't superstitious, but something told her that they'd need all the luck they could get if they were to make it out of this mess.

Even if it was offered by a pretty, tattered-looking, clover with three leaves.

**IV) Some far away day**

He will dial her number and press the phone to his ear, she won't answer so he'll leave his most important message in a mailbox.

"Lisbon, it's over, it's done. Just want you to know that I am okay…and I'm gonna miss you."

And he will run for his life.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed and reviews would be nice. And if you happen to have a wish (episode) for part four a PM would be great.


	4. Riding for a fall

**_AN: _**So I've been thinking about posting this for a good long while and yeah…it's just a little something, but I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Again, a small-but-heartfelt "Thank you" to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. I'm not big with this kind of things, but your words mean a lot.

And, another "Thank you" to **Smnbkr** for betaing it.

**Set**: Season 4, somewhere before "So long, and thanks for all the red snapper."

* * *

_„__Love_

_This is getting harder" _

_(+44: 155)_

* * *

**8:37 am, Victim's house**

It was an ordinary day in crime solving business and this was an easy case.

A bagatelle, a puzzle with ten pieces at best, such as: wife killed husband. Money was probably the main reason, maybe a new lover or old grudges were also part of the mix; Jane hadn't figured out the exact circumstances yet.

What he _had _already figured out was that this case was everything he didn't care about. Nothing about it was worth his while. A middle aged man had been shot. There were no false bottoms or hidden gimmicks, no surprising emotions or clever disguises; everybody was simply who they appeared to be—there were not even politics involved. It was just one of the cases where the easiest answer was actually the right one.

Or, in a nutshell: no fun, no games in this one.

And that bored him.

But it didn't bore Lisbon.

There were a dozen little things telling him that. Her posture spoke of tension and so did her keen eyes. There was the thin, sharp line that appeared between her eyebrows while she listened attentively to the widow, who kept repeating that she had lost an "irreplaceable human being, who was loved wherever he went". There was the jerky movement with which she brushed back a strand of hair out of her face every now and then, and the fact that she pressed the pen onto her block way too forcefully while making notes. Somebody needed to tell her that those weren't hammer and chisel, just pen and paper (maybe he would do that later).

A dozen little things were worth almost every while.

From the corner of his eye he noticed Lisbon glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. Apparently both his silence and the good behavior resulting from it had aroused her mistrust and she was expecting fresh brewed mischief any moment or maybe she was getting there right now. Jane smiled to himself. It was….pleasant.

And unfortunately there was more to it than that. Green eyes and times in between and…all this, everything they were and everything they weren't meant to be, sometimes they made him cut out red smileys and the necessity of duplicity and vengeance. Sometimes they made him wish he could stop, sometimes they did even more, and made him picture his future as a different man living a different life. A happy life.

Mercury-laced daydreams, that was probably the best way to describe them.

And if he was a reasonable man, or at least a disciplined one, he wouldn't allow himself these dreams.

But the problem was: He was neither reasonable nor disciplined. Never had been and probably never would be.

Because it was _so_ tempting to pretend that things were different.

Nearly getting caught like that also was a wake-up call; it reminded him that he had to put a little more effort into his performance.

He opened with a rather theatrical stifled yawn. Then, Jane added a little shifting around on his chair, drumming on his leg and finally he got up and started strolling through the room. Eventually, he found himself in front of the bookshelf and pretended to take an interest in it, like he expected to learn something new there. It contained expensive editions of classics, rarely read or dusted; half a dozen framed photographs, one of them showing the widow as prom queen; a moderately done oil-painting of the couple and an over-sized vase filled with white lilies. Exactly what was to be expected.

"Belinda, is it, right?" He turned around lethargic and continued in mellow conversation tone "Sorry for interrupting. I have just one question: According to you, your husband was a marvelous, flawless man. So why is it that you aren't sad that he kicked the bucket?"

Dumbfounded, she stared at him, "Excuse me?"

Lisbon gave him a scowl, but apart from that she did nothing to stop him. It was permission enough for Jane, partly, because he knew that it was the best one he was going to get and, partly, because more than enough of their time had already been wasted here and he craved for a cup of tea. He made his way back to the seating corner and grinned cheerlessly at the widow.

"Ah, you know: grief, pain, loss? Usually those bitter feelings tend to make themselves known. But not with you. You talk a good game here, but basically that's all it is: talk. No cracks in your voice, no shaky hands, no tears. Tears are those little wet things, flowing from people's eyes, when they are sad or at least have something in their eye, in case you haven't heard. You are not really sad, right?" he didn't give her time to lie about that, it had just been a rhetorical question, anyhow. "And please don't say you've heard the bad news from somebody else before, because you've mentioned twice already that we were the ones to break them to you. Now, that can lead to many conclusions, but I'm pretty sure that it's because you are gui—"

It was almost funny how safe he flew on autopilot.

Thankfully, his autopilot had included enough poking and Belinda finally gave up her "frail and shaken" act to jump to her feet and yell at him.

"If you are implying that I—then I will have my lawyer present the next time you need to harass me during this sad, dark time in my life!" theatrical, she gasped for breath, "Leave my house, now!"

Jane had heard that line once or twice before, but it was probably not the right time to bring this up.

Lisbon nodded, closed her scratch book and got up. She didn't really mind, he could see that.

"Thanks for your time, Mrs. Waits. We will keep in touch," she declared.

Jane smiled to himself. She was so determined, so intent on working this case in the best possible way and he had no idea why. It was trivial and they both knew it. Lisbon was a good cop, there was no way that she'd misjudge a case like this one.

This was an interesting puzzle, a puzzle with ten thousand pieces and maybe more, with many pieces he didn't have or that were out of his reach and, therefore, it was likely that he'd never be able to solve it.

If he was a good man, he wouldn't even try.

It was foolish and wrong, which was always and in a million ways a grand combination.

Knowing that didn't change a thing, though.

(And he would have missed this so much.)

"Jane, what's keeping you?" Lisbon's impatient voice broke in on his thoughts, and he realized that he had been staring at her place on the couch without seeing anything for seconds. She was already at the door, fumbling her phone out of her jacket pocket, and her mind obviously racing five steps and a list of orders ahead "Come on, let's go."

He hurried to catch up with her.

"Nothing is keeping me," he claimed cheerfully, and then he couldn't resist adding something, "I'm right beside you, my dear. As always."

He knew he had made a slip the moment the words were out and Lisbon didn't sneer or hit him on the arm, or do one of the other things she was supposed to do, and that she normally did. Instead, she frowned at him and the hand she was holding the phone with slowly sank.

"That's—that's not even funny. We need to get back to the office."

Jane pretended he hadn't heard the little creak in her voice, instead he gave a mock salute and opened the door for her. Once they were outside, he quickly started complaining about everything he could get a hold of: About the lack of tea in that house; about absurd looking designer furniture that was obviously never meant for anybody to sit on and that wouldn't stand a chance against his old leather couch, both comfort and character-wise; about the fact that he was the man for five-star, limited-edition cases and that he shouldn't have to waste his precious time and talent on junk cases like this one –well, it was about clutching at straws.

"Oh, hush," Lisbon finally said, and this time she did it the right way and rolled her eyes.

"All right, I'm hushing."

Complaints about everything and nothing, just to stop more careless comments from falling from his lips. Careless comments, comments that were too close to the truth and therefore shouldn't be uttered.

Careless comments like this one: _It wasn't meant to be funny. _

**9:02 am, in the car**

During the drive Lisbon pretended that she needed to focus all her attention on traffic. Her eyes were fixed on the road and her knuckles shined white as she clutched the steering wheel.

Jane leaned his head against the window and paid little attention to the sights flashing by.

Sometimes he could get away with saying those things, and sometimes he could not. Today was obviously one of the days where he could not.

Eventually, after a few minutes of silent driving, he found himself addressed and forgiven.

"Irreplaceable human being _and_ loved wherever he went, huh? Just a little over the top," Lisbon smiled. It was just a small, accommodating smile, but it had to be enough. "Might get difficult to crack her alibi, though. What do you think?"

What he thought was, that if they could make up by talking about murderous widows, fake alibis and possible motives, then he'd gladly do it, and what he said was, "Well, Mrs. Waits probably ordered the grave decoration flowers a little too rashly."

It was all right; after all it was not like he didn't understand.

**10:53 am, Lisbon's office**

Lisbon stopped typing for a moment and flexed her fingers. Her hand had gone tense from holding too tightly and hitting the keys with too much force.

Right now, Jane was taking a nap on her couch and she was doing paperwork: filling reports, making statements—or, in other words: cleaning up the mess he had created during their last case.

About ten minutes after they had returned to HQ, he had simply walked in, lamenting over the unusual and unbearable noisy bullpen on this day. His next step had been noticing how nice and quiet she had it in here and the next one had been to stack the cushions, making room for him and throwing himself onto her couch. He hadn't moved since then.

Today, the bullpen was exactly the same as it had been yesterday, just as busy, noisy and bearable. Just like it had been the day before yesterday and the day before and, well, always and they both knew it, but she hadn't called him on it.

She pretended that her reason, her _only _reason, for letting him get away with it was that she was a good boss, that having him here made it possible to keep an eye on him—and god knew, it was necessary to keep him under observation. That way he would less likely cause trouble, which was a good thing for everyone. If anybody would have dared to ask, she would have had a perfectly professional excuse.

She'd have been lying through her teeth, though.

She shouldn't have snapped at Jane earlier, it had been silly and uncalled-for. Joking around and saying things he didn't mean were mere dance steps to him, and they had been dancing for years now.

It was just… His words had hit a little too close to home. Her side had been the last thing on his mind when he had shot Timothy Carter and she had no right to hold that against him.

Lisbon knocked down the rest of her coffee in one go.

So Jane was taking a nap on her couch and she was fighting red tape.

_Nothing ever changes, huh? _

And most days it was just like that. Most days they acted like the last spring just hadn't happened. Like there had never been a Timothy Carter, like there had been no hearing, no visiting hours in prison, no request for blueberry muffins she never had to bring and no verdict. Most days they closed cases like they used to and the ground was solid and all was easy and familiar, sometimes Jane let her in on his plans and sometimes he didn't, sometimes he was a jerk and she would love to get rid of him and…

And there were moments and days when nothing was easy and everything threatened to shatter. The lies she was telling these days were big and dangerous, since the small ones about a Thanksgiving spent with old movies and ice-cream instead of family disputes just wouldn't do it anymore—sometimes she wondered how Jane managed to bear all his lies. At times they were worlds apart and the lump in her throat, the one that was made of fears, partly of those she didn't speak of and partly of those she tried not to think, seemed too big to swallow.

But they closed cases, they did good.

Still.

There was Darcy asking the wrong questions, and somewhere in the shadows, there was Red John, lying in wait, without a doubt preparing to strike again. At times Lisbon was simply afraid. Afraid for Jane, his sanity and well being and sometimes afraid of him and the lengths he was willing to go to catch his monster.

And where did that leave her?

Lisbon rested her head in her hands.

And because there was always more, and things were always worse, there actually was. It was silly and pathetic, but ever since she had woken up in the hospital with an injured shoulder, it was like the cornerstones of her world had started to crumble. Just a little, every now and then and unnoticed most of the time, but she had started to admit to herself that there were matters the law couldn't fix. Neither the law nor her; not the highest solve rate in the state, not hardly sleeping more than five hours a night or always doing her best.

For some matters, all that would never be enough.

And it wasn't like all these unwelcome bits of truth hadn't been out there all along, but she had somehow managed to block them out. She couldn't do this anymore.

She wasn't bulletproof, she never had been and she never would be. No Kevlar vest in the world and being guarded and trying to stay away from relationships that had the potential to hurt her would ever change that.

(And besides, it was a little too late for that, wasn't it?)

She could take it all right, somebody had to be in charge—and really, it was not like she had a choice.

Lisbon shook her head and forced herself to return to typing, the report wouldn't finish itself. She was being pathetic and there was no use in wavering over something she has so little influence on. But the words became blurred and after a few sentences, which were already lost to her the moment they appeared on the screen, she stopped once more and realized that she had just been kidding herself.

For the umpteenth time and about many things, but mostly about having no choice, because hypothetically speaking she had every choice in the world.

She could stop doing this at any time and run.

She could stop making up excuses on why crashing that senator's engagement party had both been appropriate and unavoidable to solve the case, and start writing applications. Right here, right now; in her office and on this computer. Call in her last favors, because there had to be damage left that hadn't been done to her reputation and career. There were still agencies and states left where nobody had ever heard of the CBI and its serious crime unit, of Red John, Patrick Jane or Teresa Lisbon.

**_'_**_I can stop anytime I want__**.'**_ that was a bitter one**,** and a line she had already heard way too often, in a previous life.

It was probably proof enough that the only label she was willing to put on her life was such a foggy one like "this".

What she knew with absolute certainty was that she wouldn't leave, even though all she could hope for was limiting the damage. Lisbon glanced at her sleeping consultant. If he was awake and in a dangerous mood, he would probably say something like that. If she listened close enough, she could even hear him.

_"__You can't leave me,"_ he'd say, eyes and voice filled with reproach "_you are the only one I really trust, you know that, right? I told you about Red John, only you, Lisbon, nobody else. We are a team, partners in crime, sort of."_

If she leaned in a little closer, she could hear him say something else and this time, and if he would say it, his voice would be loaded with hurt and a lack of understanding: _"If you abandon me, who will try to protect me? To fix me? And who will save you, always? Have you forgotten about the thing I've been meaning to tell you for a long time?"_

Without thinking she reached for her cross pendant. Because if she listened even closer, she could hear him say something else, something she didn't even want to imagine. There'd be mockery and a streak of cruelty in these words: "_Teresa, did you really think that you could keep something like that from me? In reality you know full well why you can't even seriously think about leaving, you just can't admit it, not even to yourself. Because the heart wants—"_

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. It was Van Pelt and according to the smile of satisfaction on her face she brought good news. Just what she needed now.

"Boss?" After glancing briefly at Jane, the agent dropped her voice "Nothing useful from the co-workers, but like you said, we've managed to get a hold of a recently updated life insurance policy and pretty promising camera footage from the crime scene. You wanna come, take a look at it?"

Lisbon got up and followed her colleague.

Of course she wanted to. For all the right reasons and because listening to all the things Jane would never have to say anyway was even worse than being pathetic.

"Coming."

A small smile flashed over her face as she walked past Jane.

Maybe he was just pretending to sleep, maybe he wasn't. Anyway, they would manage without him, it wasn't like he could contribute much here.

And besides, even the wicked needed a little rest, every now and then.

She pulled the door shut behind her gently.

**11:15 am, Lisbon's office **

Left alone, Jane blinked.

**15: 01 pm, kitchenette **

Lisbon had spent the last few hours on familiar ground. This was a routine case, which meant that they had covered lots of routine work. The timeline of the murder stood, they had phone records, a cracked alibi and on top of that the life insurance thing**,** and all they were waiting for at this point was for judge Withers to grant the necessary warrants.

And personally, all she was waiting for at this point was for her fresh-made coffee to reach a drinkable temperature. And for Jane and Cho to get back from Woodland.

"I bet you didn't know that humans are unable to walk a long, straight line."

_Speaking of the devil. _

Lisbon stirred her coffee very thoroughly before she stopped pretending that she hadn't heard him and turned around.

"That's tragic…I guess," she jested.

Jane leaned **on** the doorframe, hands buried in his jacket pockets. His tone was jovial, but there was an air of restlessness about him. And because she was already seeing warning signs, his hair was a little ruffled.

"Fascinating, isn't it? Apparently, it's all about walking in circles. They carried out experiments, and the blind-folded respondents fell out completely while the ones who could see did better. Not great, but…better." It was more a twitch of the lips than a real smile accompanying these words.

Something had to be bugging him.

Now that narrowed it down considerably, because it wasn't like he had a lot to worry about. Everything was a possibility, well, everything but her snapping at him earlier and Mrs. Waits alibi, because those minor incidents didn't matter to him.

"And did you learn that at the Spa? Cause last time we spoke, I had you and Cho go to Woodland and check the widow's alibi."

"Been there, done that." He shrugged dismissive "I just wonder why, Lisbon."

_Just like that. _

He threw his gauntlet down at her feet and she simply refused to pick it up. Lisbon knew full well that she had every reason to be grateful and relieved because it was only a small thing, but she was neither.

She should have known that he'd notice.

Jane watched her attentively.

"Let me think about it – because we need to prove that she is actually guilty? You know, a hunch is not enough to send someone to prison, even if it's one of your hunches. The court system doesn't work that way. We need to make this airtight." She bit her lip, looked away and hastily continued, "and because you are a consultant and that's exactly the kind of work the CBI is hiring you for, the work you get paid for?"

_For better or for worse. _

A mocking smile played on his lips while he watched her getting tangled up in all her reasonable and professional sounding lies. After all, they both knew what he was getting at.

Eventually the feeling that she was only making a fool of herself got overwhelming and she stopped.

"A beautiful speech held by a terrible liar," Jane nodded in acknowledgment and even clapped a few times, which made Lisbon briefly wish back the times where she would have threatened to shoot him. Then he got serious. "But you know, you could just tell me the truth. We both know that you don't need my help on this one."

"Help?" she folded her arms across her chest and looked at him challenging. They had danced this dance _so_ many times before and therefore, she knew exactly what to say and what to do. She wouldn't paint herself further into a corner here. "Really? That's what you call it? 'Cause I don't think you've been helping much here til now. The most striking thing you did was getting us thrown out of that house and, to be honest**,** I don't see how that was—"

And just like that, Jane interrupted her midstream.

"You keep this up and people are going to suspect that you want to keep me busy and close, that you are worried about me. Because even if we change the label and call it my services or my professional opinion, it doesn't change the fact that you didn't need me on this case."

Different emotions played on his face and finally, he shook his head.

"Please," she managed a wry smile and tried to make it sound like an absurd idea, but of course, it was too late for that. "I may have been worried for myself. Who knows what kind of important people you manage to find and piss off when you are left to your own devices?"

Her coffee was now long ago drinkable, it wasn't hot enough to warm her damp fingers anymore.

"You were worried, weren't you?" his voice was soft and gentle now.

_Wicked funny. _

"No-well, yes. Maybe a little," she reluctantly admitted.

Of course she had been worried. Just like she worried about him on a daily basis.

Jane smiled. It was a real smile and therefore a rarity, it reached his eyes and made them soften.

And it did something else: It made her stupid heart flutter.

One certainty lost and a new constant companion won.

And that companion wasn't only silly and pathetic**,** but ranked among outright madness: It was like the world had suddenly added another dimension, the one with the headline "I can't lose you". She had almost lost him too many times already, and one day, his luck could be used up. _Their_ luck could be used up. The next time she lost him it could be for good.

Before he could respond to that, Rigsby hurried past and stopped to poke his head round the door.

"Boss? Mrs. Waits and her lawyer just got in, we put them in interrogation room one."

Lisbon reached for her mug and followed him.

She barely felt the touch of Jane's hand on her shoulder, just like she scarcely heard his whispered "Thank you".

**6:27 pm, Attic**

Nothing but tea, dust and the tyger were supposed to keep Jane company, he wanted it that way. Down in the bullpen, they were winding up the Waits case and he had withdrawn himself to his hideout to brood over Red John.

And nothing was wrong with the smoky taste or the dancing dust particles, they never failed him; but his thoughts enjoyed that privilege. Today, they were like a mass of autumn leaves somebody had pointed a leaf blower on, they were scattered in all directions.

His head was filled with too many careless comments, all the things he had wanted to say. Not only today, but so many times before already, all the wrong words and thoughts he kept locked up and choked back.

Those thoughts were poisonous, because nothing was possible and full well did he know it. He had put his life in pawn years ago and therefore it was not like he could or should hope for much, not like he was free. He had lost the right to want anything for himself and had nothing to offer to anyone, least of all Lisbon.

It was absurd, but in a way, he was a lucky man; lucky to have this, to have her—he was aware of that. And he was aware of something else: he shouldn't feel that way.

So many people had already lost their lives because of him and the list would lengthen in the future. He had asked a favor of Red John and that was another debt he'd have to redeem.

He took another slip of tea and closed his eyes, tried to cling onto the familiar poem.

"Tyger, tyger,"

_Thank you, for everything. I wish I was worth your while. I wish your fears were groundless._

"Burning bright"

_You have no idea that you mean the world to me. I couldn't do this without you. I wish I could tell you that. _

"In the forests of the night"

_I wish time was on our side. I wish I could promise you something. _

"What immortal hand or eye"

_I wish I was good for you. I wish I could be who you want me to be, who you deserve._

"Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

_I wish I wasn't guilty. I wish could stay. I am sorry. _

One of these days and far too soon, his house of cards would fall down—this had never been meant to last that long. New evidence would be discovered, Red John would finally make a mistake or Jane would manage to find leverage, either way he would find his nemesis and then, he would do what he had to. He would cross that line, he would kill.

And maybe he would die or go to prison later or maybe, somehow he would manage to get away.

He had no idea how or why, and he knew he didn't deserve such an outcome but somewhere along the way, the latter one had become the only option he wanted to think of.

Well, at least he knew why that was.

He wouldn't have given himself good odds, though.

Jane closed his book and got up from the table. Today was one of the days where he wouldn't find any clues, where he couldn't think straight for obvious reasons, but there was something he could do, something he wanted to do.

He went downstairs.

**8:57 pm, Lisbon's office**

"Hey," Jane greeted.

Lisbon stopped typing and met his gaze.

"Hey yourself."

"I-",

He said and his voice was suddenly hoarse. For the longest moment, all the little truths burned in his throat, all the things about wishing, wanting and knowing better. For the longest moment, he imagined how it would be if he actually let the words out.

_I love you. You are the best thing I have. I love you._

And then, the moment was over, and Lisbon was still looking at him expecting and a little worried and he was able to be rational again. Well, at least sort of. He stretched his arms and ambled towards her desk.

"I've been thinking about dinner. You wanna get something to eat? I'd ask the others to join, but apparently we are the last men standing."

He shrugged and made it sound like they had been left behind instead of admitting that he had spent the better part of the last hour waiting for Van Pelt to finish whatever work it had been that had kept her this late. Rigsby had left early, apparently Ben had some kind of appointment and Cho had followed a little later to be with his CI, so those two hadn't been in the way much "I'm pretty hungry, actually I'm starving and I know just the place. What do you say?"

Lisbon leaned back and pretended to chew on his invitation. Jane smiled.

"Maybe. Are you paying?"

"Do I get to be the one driving? Because that means that I'm paying."

She got up and reached for her handbag. Jane helped her into her coat. "You really expect me to risk my life over a free meal?"

"Oh, please. It's not my fault that those speed limit guys are so small minded."

They walked through the empty bullpen and towards the elevator.

Just an ordinary day in crime solving business, coming to one of the nicest possible ends.

They would deal with the rest tomorrow.


End file.
